For The Cute Poet In Iowa,

by Melanie Browne

My husband is jealous of you,

Because I make him read your

Poems,

He likes some of them.

He squeals like a pig and calls

You farm boy,

Apparently you have sex with lots

Of lonely housewives in Iowa,

And you have lots of adventures

With down on their luck

People that hang out

In bars and greasy diners,

Also in Iowa,

I have to admit,

Some of your poems

Are a little hard to believe,

Like The day you met the Indian

Chief and he turned out

To be your grandfather,

and he told you

your sacred animal

was the Beaver

and a silent

tear fell from your

face and settled

into

your overpriced

shot glass